


Into That Good Night

by adevyish



Category: Harry Potter - Rowling
Genre: Anti-Muggle Language, Book 2: Harry Potter and the Chamber of Secrets, Community: parsel_fest, Dreamsharing, Emotional Manipulation, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, M/M, References to Suicide, misogynistic language
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2008-09-23
Updated: 2008-09-23
Packaged: 2017-10-12 11:16:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,568
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/124282
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/adevyish/pseuds/adevyish
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Trapped in the diary, Tom becomes obsessed with manipulating Harry.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Into That Good Night

**Author's Note:**

  * For [dysperdis](https://archiveofourown.org/users/dysperdis/gifts).
  * Inspired by [Something Me In You](https://archiveofourown.org/external_works/1599) by Aoe. 



> Thanks to papered for the beta.

Tom was imprisoned in a thoroughly water-logged diary. Worse, the Mudblood girl—that Tom had killed, blast it!—would not cease wailing. Tom cursed that Weasley chit once more. When he possessed her again, he would ensure that her only freedom would be death.

Sensing approaching students, Tom cast a notice-me charm on the diary. Someone picked up the diary, and Tom felt the tingle of familiar magic, like an old lost friend, pulling gently at his fragment of a soul. Another Horcrux. Inside the diary, Tom smirked.

Annoyingly, for several days Tom was left alone, the diary left unopened. There was the unpleasant tug of _Aparecium_ and the rough scratch of a magical eraser. His fellow soul fragment was always close by, but muffled by another soul, an animate container obviously unaware of its purpose. Impatient, Tom drew the other Horcrux closer, tugging their connection, enveloping it with the comforting familiarity of a long-loved friend. In return, Tom felt the tingle of the other Horcrux’s touch more and more, caressing the cover and thumbing through the pages.

Sometimes, Tom could feel the faint echo of the Horcrux vessel’s emotions, its fear and helpless anger. Sometimes, Tom could sense the magic of the Weasley puppet, waiting for him to use. However, he wasn’t ready to give up the puzzle of his other Horcrux yet. Thus, to the Weasley chit, Tom sent a little helpful guidance: images of looming Azkaban and its ghoulish guardians. And for his dear oblivious Horcrux, Tom waited.

 

Tom found himself in the corner of a white room. It was small, empty and lifeless, broken toys scattered across the floorboards. Tom heard loud shouts over the sound of stomps on stairs. The door flew open, and an obese man shoved a small boy into the lifeless room. “Stay there!” the man demanded with angry glee. The door slammed closed, and Tom heard the unmistakable clicks of latching locks.

Like an abandoned marionette, the expressionless boy fell to his bed. “I’m not the Heir of Slytherin,” the boy sobbed silently, trying to convince himself. “I’m not the Heir of Slytherin.”

Tom deduced he was in the mind of Harry Potter, and took the opportunity to observe Potter, who he had only ever seen in Weasley’s infatuated mind. Weasley was certain Potter was a handsome knight-prince; Tom disbelieved every daub of that painting. Now, beholding Potter for the first time, Tom glimpsed the appeal. Potter’s bedraggled hair and misfit spectacles belied his yet unacknowledged magical and political power. Potter had the ardent eyes of a warrior, not yet ready to fight, and the fragile frame of an innocent, ready for Tom to mould. And in Potter’s magic, Tom sensed a tingle, a familiar embrace. Tom laughed: the boy who was Tom’s supposed defeater was also his Horcrux.

“Boy!” yelled a voice. “Time to eat!”

One by one, the locks tumbled. The door opened, lighting a stark slat across the dusty floor. Potter followed the obese man wordlessly though his eyes glinted with restrained anger at his gaoler. Potter looked similar to Tom at that age; Tom wondered if being his Horcrux had consequences beyond the scar. Tom followed Potter down the stairs and into the dining room, where Potter set the table, sat down, and waited.

A weedy woman placed a small ration on his plate. Potter kept waiting.

A large boy lumbered down the stairs and jumped into a seat, knocking Potter in the process. The boy stuffed a slab of beef into in his mouth, and opened his mouth to speak. “Kicked out of freak school,” the boy sang. “Even the freaks don’t want you!”

Potter made no response.

The boy grabbed Potter’s collar. “Look at me when I’m talking to you!” He threw Potter to the ground and began kicking. The man and woman had disappeared from the nightmare. Tom watched smugly as Lord Voldemort’s defeater was beaten by a mere muggle. A bone snapped. Tom promptly discarded his twinge of sympathy.

The beating stopped eventually. Potter was left in his dusty room with worn furniture and broken toys. For Tom, it was a perfect opportunity. Tom sat beside Potter, and placed a tentative, reassuring hand carefully on to Potter’s shoulder. Potter twitched subtly at the contact, and slowly turned towards Tom.

Potter said, dully, “I haven’t seen you before.”

Tom wanted to tell Potter exactly who he was, but it would be _inconsiderate_. “It doesn’t matter,” Tom said, faking a sympathetic smile that was lost on the mulling Potter. As if hesitant, Tom asked, “Are you all right?”

“I’m fine,” Potter mumbled, looking away.

“You’re not,” said Tom in a gentle yet sure voice. Tom leaned closer while shifting to sit in front of Potter. Tom gazed at Potter with practised earnest eyes, and said, “You don’t have to tell me, if you don’t want to.”

Potter kept silent, but his eyes—bright green, Tom noticed—flicked up to peer at Tom.

“No matter what happens, I’ll always be here for you,” Tom said, lying with perfected ease. “You can tell me anything you want; you can tell me nothing. I’ll be here regardless.”

“You don’t know me,” Potter said. His face held barely a trace of emotion. It was a mask for desperate want; Tom recognized it from his best-forgotten years as a naïf.

“I do know you,” Tom said. “You just don’t remember me.” It was even the truth.

“Then why weren’t you here for me?” whispered Potter. An inconvenient question, Tom thought; intelligence in his pawns was both a blessing and a curse.

“It was out of my control,” Tom replied, injecting an edge of anguish. “But we’re finally together again.” He clutched tightly at Potter’s shoulders, like a desperate man. “Won’t you forgive me?”

“This is a dream,” said Potter, “isn’t it?”

Tom wrapped his arms around Potter’s still shoulders.

“I’ll make it real, Harry.”

 

Tom’s patience proved worthwhile when one day, his Horcrux opened the diary and wrote, “My name is Harry Potter.” Tom fed Potter his fifty-year-old tale about the Chamber of Secrets, making his words appear in a frantic, worried hand. Potter was eager to know more, and Tom easily lured him into the diary. While Potter watched Tom’s memory, Tom strengthened his connection with the other Horcrux.

In short time, Tom appeared in the middle of a suburban muggle town.

“It’s you again,” said Potter, crouched on the lawn of an plain pretty house. “I was right. You’re only a dream.”

Tom said, in efficient assurance, “Do you think you could have dreamed of me, a real person, before you ever saw my memory?”

“No,” said Potter, unsure.

“I told you I’m here for you,” said Tom, with a tone of fond exasperation.

“But,” said Potter, blinking his bright confused eyes, “I’ve never known a Tom Riddle.”

“I knew you when you were young,” Tom said. His other self knew Potter, of course, as much as a predator knows his prey.

“But how can you be in my dream?” asked Potter, voice full of doubtful hope.

“I don’t know,” Tom lied. The best lies were those that held some truth, so he added, “Based on what I know about magical connections, I think that our souls might be connected on a deeper level.”

“Really?” said Potter. Potter’s hair glittered in the colourless light. Tom reached to finger a lock, as black as his own. The connection seemed to heave as it wove tighter.

Potter tilted his head, exposing his pale throat. “Can you see my dreams?”

“Sometimes,” Tom said.

“I hate the Dursleys.”

Tom’s hand moved to smooth over his petite shoulder. “They’re your horrid Muggle relatives, aren’t they?”

“Yeah,” Potter said, and stared at the chalk white house. “Sometimes I think it would’ve been better if I went to an orphanage.”

“No,” Tom said vehemently, “don’t ever say that.”

“You didn’t like your orphanage much, did you?” Potter said. “In the memory, you said you didn’t want to go back.”

“No, I didn’t,” Tom snapped. Potter shirked back immediately. Tom sighed, cursing inwardly. He had Potter’s trust to keep. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to,” he said. “I’m not ready to tell you.”

“I understand,” said Potter, his eyes revealing that he did. Tom found himself unable to fake a thanking smile, and he quickly embraced Potter to hide his countenance. They stayed, woven together, until the dream slowly began to fade.

 

Tom found a much younger Potter running away from a group of boys. As the boys were about to surround Potter, Tom—and Potter—reappeared on a concrete roof. Potter, still panting, looked about in wide-eyed confusion. He spotted Tom and, having come to a realization, resumed his actual age. He lowered himself to rest on the roof, without so much as greeting or acknowledging Tom.

Tom contained his irritation, and patiently asked, “Is this also a memory?”

“Yeah,” Harry muttered. “They chased me around and I appeared up here.” He shrugged. “Apparition, I guess.”

Tom asked, “How did you hurt them back?”

“I didn’t,” Potter said. Tom kept himself from saying that compromise and conciliation were for fools and cowards. “That’s your thing,” Potter continued.

“And they never dared touch me again.” Tom was aware that he sounded slightly condescending, but it was all right, as it was the way of the world and Tom wanted Potter to realize it.

Potter glanced upwards towards the non-existent heavens and ran a pale hand through his hair. “It’s not right, Tom.”

Tom replied, factually, “It’s not right to defend myself?”

“That isn’t defence,” Potter stated loudly. “That’s revenge!”

The hypocrite, Tom thought as he grabbed Potter’s hand and forced Potter to face him. “Tell me, Harry,” he said quietly. “Don’t you want to avenge your parents’ deaths?”

“That’s different…” Potter said, needing to reason, to justify what others had taught him was sin.

“No,” Tom said, keeping his voice soft, “That’s not different.”

“I’m not fighting for me, Tom,” Potter insisted forcefully.

Tom grabbed Potter’s other hand and looked straight into Potter’s eyes. With laced conviction, he said, “If you don’t fight for yourself, everyone’s going to step all over you. They’ll use you and abuse you for their own benefit. Every man, every child puts himself first: if you don’t protect yourself, no one will do it for you.”

“My mum and dad did!”

Tom released Potter’s hands and swallowed the bile in his throat at the reminder of Potter’s _loving_ parents. He thought his words through. He couldn’t say Potter’s parents were dead by his hand and unable to protect him now. Instead he said, “Your mum and dad would want you to protect yourself, wouldn’t they?”

“Professor Dumbledore would help,” Potter replied. Potter was a fool if he believed that; Dumbledore could not care less.

“He needs you to defeat Lord Voldemort for him,” Tom said in a monotone, “doesn’t he?”

“He’s not like that,” Potter said defensively. Tom tried to remind himself that Potter was twelve and easily indoctrinated.

“How do you know?” Tom asked. “He placed you at the Dursleys’, didn’t he?”

Potter tightened his fists, and exhaled loudly. “Can we…can we please talk about something else?”

Tom sat down beside Potter. It was an excellent opportunity to impart the allegory Tom had created while locked in the diary. “I’ll tell you a story, then,” Tom said. Potter, attentively hunched with his cheek resting sideways on his knees, did not need to know that this story was often referred to as the rape of Ganymede.

“In the fields of Phrygia there was a young shepherd called Ganymede,” Tom begun, implying Ganymede mundane rather than a Trojan prince descended from gods. “One day, Zeus, the king of the gods, spied Ganymede from his heavenly throne on Mount Olympus. Taken with Ganymede,”—Potter would be more pliable if he thought Tom admired him—“Zeus turned into an eagle and flew to Phrygia.”

“Zeus swooped down and caught Ganymede gently in his great talons, and spirited Ganymede to Olympus. There he made Ganymede his honoured cup-bearer, and gave Ganymede a place in the stars so they could stay together in eternity.”

Potter smiled sadly, shaking his head. “The gods wouldn’t want me,” he said, with the surety of a child still trying to convince himself there was a God.

Tom said, in his most sympathetic persuasive tone, “They would be fools if they didn’t want you, Harry.”

 

Tom found himself by the lake, Hogwarts in the distance, obscured by grey fog. Potter was slouched by the water’s edge, arms hanging over spread knees. Harry looked up and gave a bright grin. “Hey, Tom.”

Tom walked down dewy grass to Potter’s side, and cast a drying charm on the ground before seating himself. “Hello, Harry.”

Potter said, “I want to tell someone else about, y’know.” Tom, recalling someone’s _Aparecium_ and magical eraser, did not want anyone to even guess, let alone be told outright.

Forcing a light tone, Tom said, “Not us, I would hope.” He gave a playful smile. “I like being your little secret.”

Potter blushed prettily, the blood rushing to his white cheeks. “Er, no,” he said, words stumbling out, “I meant the Dursleys.”

“Why?” Tom asked in a serious manner, although he didn’t care much.

“Er, I thought if you didn’t mind, then Ron and Hermione wouldn’t,” Potter replied. “They’re my best friends, y’know.”

“Harry,” Tom said with grave import. “You and I, we’re different from them. They had loving childhoods; they couldn’t possibly understand.” Isolationist us-versus-them rhetoric had worked so well on the Weasley girl.

“Oh,” Potter responded with slight dejection. “Maybe I could tell a teacher,” he muttered.

“And who placed you there?” Tom inquired. Tom could not believe how naïve Potter was. Heir of Slytherin, indeed.

“Professor Dumbledore, but he said it’s to protect me—”

Tom’s rage flared. “Protect you? _Protect you?_ ” Tom shut his eyes, and took a breath to calm himself before he gave himself away. Voice full of vitriol, he continued, “I’m sure it’s _perfectly_ fine in our glorious leader Dumbledore’s world if a Wizarding orphan gets a little roughed up by a few muggles. It wouldn’t do for the boy to be _cared for_ by fellow wizards and witches who know and respect magic!” Gesturing at the castle, he added, “Or stay at the one place they call home!”

“Tom,” said Potter, uneasily. Tom would not be derailed.

“He’s doing the same thing to you he did to me,” Tom said. “I begged him—I _begged him_ not to make me go back, and he never listened! He stood there, the benevolent Father, dangling unattainable salvation in front of His believers!” Tom stopped to catch his breath. “The muggles fear what they don’t understand, ignore what they don’t want to understand.”

Potter asked, “Wouldn’t wizards do too?”

Tom hated being interrupted, yet he found himself amused—Potter had stolen Tom’s speech and expressed his very thoughts. “They do, and fools they are,” Tom said. He combed his hands through Potter’s hair. “You are so much like me, Harry.”

“You never told me all of it,” Potter whispered, as if to himself, and quietly asked, “How bad was it?”

Tom knew that even if he hated the idea, empathy would make Potter more amenable towards Tom’s plans. “I’ve never told anyone, Harry,” Tom began. He paused, letting the silence speak. “They beat me. Regularly. They would lock me in a small white room. I’ll never forget that room for the rest of my life. The walls had cracking white paint, framed by peeling moulding. The floor was made of white-washed wood speckled with dried splatters. The ceiling had mould at the corners and sometimes a mushroom.” Tom smiled in a deprecating fashion. “I ate one once; I spent the night retching dry.

“The room didn’t have a window. I slept on a rotting wooden bed in the corner. There wasn’t a mattress, only a white sheet for cover. Sometimes I woke up with splinters. If I had a nightmare, I’d wake up on the floor—being beaten, usually.” It was nearly but not _quite_ that bad, of course, but discretion was the better part of persuasion.

Harry had placed his arms awkwardly around Tom, and was now holding them stiff above Tom’s shoulders. Tom leaned closer to Harry, placing his chin on Harry’s small shoulder, lifting a hand to stroke Harry’s hair. Tom kept his body relaxed as Harry’s arms encircled him.

“Thank you,” he whispered sweetly into Harry’s ear.

They stayed under the cold grey sky in the shared vision of their flawed and only home.

 

At the top of the Astronomy Tower sat a contemplative Harry, partly lit by the stars. Snow, spread like cream on a prince’s cake, layered the castle and the grounds with an otherworldly glow. Veiled by darkness, Tom took the moment to study Harry. Underneath his fumbling, Potter had a depth to him that reminded Tom of himself. However, Potter had chosen to hide. He was still weak.

Tom walked forward.

“Hi Tom, d’you know anything more about the Chamber of Secrets?” Potter greeted. He had obviously been planning the inquisition.

“No,” Tom replied. He congratulated himself and said to Potter, very sadly, “I’m sorry, Harry.”

Harry sighed, slumping forward, revealing the back of his alabaster neck. “I wish I could just get this whole thing over with.”

Tom sighed mentally. Potter’s re-indoctrination was not much of a burden compared to Slughorn and his club, but it was still tedious. Tom pulled Potter into his lap and stroked his back soothingly.

“I guess I’m the freak again. The freak and the runt,” Harry was saying. “At least I’ve still got Ron and Hermione.”

 _Avada Kedavra_ was the best cure for those bloody muggles, Tom thought. “I like you, Harry,” said Tom, absently musing that Harry’s pretty neck would look very nice with a collar. Tom elaborated for Harry’s blind mind, “You’re far from ugly. You’re very beautiful.”

“Boys aren’t supposed to be _pretty_ ,” Harry cried.

In Tom’s day pretty boys had been in vogue from churches to Eton, so Tom bluntly asked, “Why not?”

Harry yelled, “Because that makes them poofs!”

Of all the things he had been accused of, Tom had never been called a poofter. Just to see Harry flustered, Tom pretended he did not understand the term. He adopted a confused look, and asked, “Poofs?”

“Y’know,” Harry cried, hands waving wildly, “boys who like boys.”

Lacing his voice with sympathy, Tom said, “There’s nothing wrong liking boys.” Only the Church of England hypocrites called it a sin.

“But it’s _wrong!_ ” Harry said desperately. Tom thought it might have been denial; Harry was twelve after all.

“Who says it’s wrong?” Tom asked. “Bigoted muggles like the Dursleys? You shouldn’t care what they say.”

Tom swiftly kissed Harry. Harry’s black eyelashes fluttered; his pink lips opened and closed in surprise. Tom didn’t want anyone else to ever see Harry like this.

“Tell me, Harry,” Tom murmured. “Does that feel wrong?”

“No?” whispered Harry, green eyes looking lost.

Tom tucked Harry’s unruly hair behind his ear, and said, “If it doesn’t feel wrong, it can’t be wrong.” Tom smiled reassuringly at Harry. Harry’s lips formed a slow tentative smile in return.

Tom’s hand wandered under Harry’s shirt, and caressed the cool skin there. “Don’t hide, Harry,” he said. “You should always be proud of who you are.” Pride was never wrong; no-one listened to those scared of themselves.

“Okay,” Harry said, not seeming to pay attention. He leaned into Tom’s body, so trusting, and seemed to drift off in contentment.

Tom leaned to lay against the ramparts, his hands idly tracing serpentine tattoos on Harry. “There’s no moon,” he remarked.

“I like seeing all the stars,” Harry said. “It’s so different from the suburbs. You can even see the trees and hills at the edge.” Harry smiled brilliantly.

Tom scanned the wide sky and the wide fields that would one day be his. Tom whispered to Harry, “One day, my Ganymede.”

 

Tom found Potter with a book of photographic portraits. Wizards had evidently adopted photographs in the past fifty years, and made them into short films.

Potter waved, gesturing for Tom to sit on the red and gold bed. Potter then pointed to the open volume. “These are my parents,” he said with a happy smile. The photograph Potter was indicating held two moving figures. The man had the classic Potter looks, although the spectacles were of a different style from Harry’s or those in Tom’s day. The woman’s eyes were a hazel green, faded by time.

“They say I look like my dad, with my mum’s eyes,” said Potter.

“Hm,” Tom said. Tom ran his hand through Potter’s chaotic hair twice, and removed Potter’s spectacles. Without a smudged glass barrier, Potter’s eyes became vivid and stark. They had an unnatural glow, as if they were forever scarred by Tom’s _Avada Kedavra_.

“You’re more than your parents,” Tom said.

“What d’you mean?” Harry asked.

“You remind me of myself sometimes,” Tom said. “Destined for eminence.”

Harry’s wide, curious eyes blinked. “Eminence?”

“Greatness,” Tom explained, hiding his exasperation.

Harry frowned slightly. “Ollivander said that, y’know. That he expected great things from me, ’cos my wand’s brother to Voldemort’s. I don’t want to be like him,” Harry said fervently, and Tom barely refrained from angry comments defending his other self. Harry looked at Tom earnestly, and nervously licked his lips. “I just want to—do something good, y’know?”

“That’s a kind of greatness too,” Tom said. “Merlin was great, was he not?”

“But that’s _Merlin_ ,” Harry cried. Tom almost wanted to ask if Hogwarts taught History any more, before recalling his own Binns education.

“What of Traian Everard, responsible for numerous educational reforms during his reign as Hogwarts Headmaster? Or Gunhilda of Gorsemoor, who created the cure for Dragon Pox? There are many kinds of greatness, Harry, if you wish to seek them.”

Harry looked at Tom, as if considering something, then laughed. “I’m fine with just being your friend, Tom.”

“Ganymede was Zeus’ _friend_ ,” Tom stated, neglecting that Ganymede had been Zeus’s lover, “and Zeus gave him a position of great honour.”

Upon hearing that Potter laughed again, a light, bubbly cadence, and buried his head into Tom’s chest. Tom concealed a sigh, and pushed Harry down on to the bed. Harry’s eyes stared at Tom, green and mirthful.

Tom swooped down and kissed Harry’s grinning lips. Harry turned his head away, laughing. Tom slid his hands into Harry’s oversize shirt.

“Your hands are cold,” Harry said, batting at Tom’s arms.

“This shirt has to go,” Tom stated, pulling it off. Harry’s ribs protruded from his torso, with a few scars scattered on his pale skin.

“It’s not my fault,” Harry said. “’M cold.”

Tom wrapped his body around Harry’s frame. “I’ll give you a wardrobe fit for a prince.”

“Sounds nice,” Harry murmured. “Can we please get under the covers? ’M cold.”

 

Tom found himself in a familiar stone room. He thought himself still in his diary, until he noticed the sheen of cobwebs and dust blanketing the formerly opulent room. In its centre was an ancient mirror and a turbaned man. Harry was shouting at the man, stupidly leaving himself open. The man bound him with ease. Tom watched from the shadows as the man revealed himself to be Lord Voldemort’s vessel.

In that moment, Harry became desperate and defiant. His broken body was alive with magic; Tom and Harry’s connection echoed in remembrance. Green eyes burned and black strands flew as Harry fought a last stand. Tom wanted to embrace Harry, take him and rebuild him. Tom envisaged a body on the ground, Harry’s face painted with blood looking at Tom with an exultant smile. Harry would become the jewel of Tom’s empire. Tom was sure of it.

 

They were on the Dursleys’ manicured lawn, the neighbourhood trees on the cusp of autumn.

“Y’know,” Harry said, picking at the yellowing grass, “you remind me of a poem we learned in school.”

“The poems I learned in elementary school all espoused the glory of Britannia,” said Tom, who held no regard for Muggle rambling. “Truly, they sound like our purebloods.”

“Oh. It’s not one of those poems,” said Harry. “It was written after you…the diary was made, I think. When I heard it, I wished my parents were like that.” Harry, face lit with awe, said, “They were.”

Tom was the slightest bit intrigued. He wanted to know what Harry thought of him, to compare him to his parents. “Recite the poem for me?” he asked.

Harry mumbled. “Er, I don’t remember all of it.”

“It’s all right,” said Tom, stroking Harry’s hair absently. “Tell me what you remember.”

“Er.” Harry straightened. His eyes unfocussed in thought and he began reciting. “Do not go gentle into that good night. Old age…old age should burn and rave at close of day. Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

“Good men…crying how bright their…their frail deeds might have danced in a green bay, rage, rage against the dying of the light.

“Wild men who sang…who caught and sang the sun in flight, and learn, too late, they grieved it on its way, do not go gentle into that good night.

“And you, my father, there on that sad height—curse, bless me now with your fierce tears, I pray. Do not go gentle into that good night. Rage, rage against the dying of the light.”

Tom did not want to discuss the poem. The two of them sat in pregnant silence, Tom’s hand still in Harry’s hair, cupping Harry’s neck.

Tom said, “I’m not old.”

Harry slowly shook off his reverie, and flashed a tiny teasing smile. “But the real you’s old, isn’t he?”

“ _I’m_ not old yet,” Tom complained, trying to conceal his desperation.

“See?” said Harry. “That’s why the poem reminds me of you. You want to live so, so much.” Harry pursed his lips. “I wish I were like that. Professor Dumbledore says ‘Death is the next great adventure’, but I can’t go calmly like that. ’M too young.” He looked at Tom intently. “But sometimes I want to, y’know? Just to see my parents, have a bit break.” His eyes dropped to the floor. “I wish I was stronger than that.”

Tom’s fingers nudged at Harry’s chin. “You’re doing fine, Harry,” he said, looking at those eyes full of green life. Harry wouldn’t die. Tom wouldn’t let it happen.

 

Tom was greeted by a sight he had not seen in a while: Harry was crying on his red and gold bed. Tom moved to wrap his arms around the shaking body. Harry looked up in relief. He said all in a rush, “Hermione was Petrified—you’ve got to help me—I’ve got to find out who’s the Heir of Slytherin—”

Alarmed, Tom interjected, “You can’t, Harry.”

“But I have to stop him!” Harry shouted, eyes wide with hysteria.

Tom placed his hands on Harry’s shoulders as a calming weight. “Who says you have to stop him?”

“I have to!”

“What if the Heir of Slytherin kills you?” Tom’s hands tightened as if he were frantic with worry. “I couldn’t live without you, Harry,” he lied. “I couldn’t bear to see you die. You understand, don’t you?”

“I do, but—”

Tom’s fingers dug into Harry’s bones. “You _understand_ , don’t you?”

“But—”

“Shh,” Tom whispered, trailing his hand along Harry’s cheek. It drifted underneath Harry’s chin and lifted Harry’s head. “It’s alright.”

Harry kept his eyes on the ground.

“Harry,” said Tom, hands smoothing softly over Harry’s shoulder blades. He concentrated on their connection and relayed reassurance and docility. “I’m not angry at you,” Tom said. “I’m worried about you.”

“I know,” Harry said understandingly, glancing at Tom almost with adoration.

Tom smiled and kissed Harry’s brow, ghosting over the scar. “Best friends, remember?”

Harry’s head tilted, and rested on Tom’s shoulder. “Best friends.”

 

Tom’s plans were reaching fruition. Raising his eyes from the Weasley’s body, he idly looked around the Chamber. The hall was as grand as ever, the darkness enveloping him in its warm embrace. Soon Tom would have a body, and touch Harry for the first time.

“Ginny!” shouted a voice. Harry appeared from the darkness, running to the Weasley and dropping to the floor in despair. Tom cursed. Thankfully, naïve Harry dropped his wand; Harry still had many things to learn.

“Don’t be dead,” Harry was chanting, “please don’t be dead…”

Tom picked up the brother to his wand. It accepted and rejected at once. Tom walked up to Harry, idly spinning the wand in his hand.

“She won’t wake,” Tom said softly.

Harry glanced up. “Tom,” Harry pleaded. “You’ve got to help me.” Harry leaned over the Weasley, brushing red hair out of her sickly face. Tom contained his anger at the familiarity—Harry didn’t even know her!

“…get her out of here, Tom,” Harry was saying. Harry’s eyes were glancing around, for his wand. “Did you see—” Harry looked up to see his wand in Tom’s hand. “Thanks,” Harry said in relief, reaching for his wand.

Tom pulled the wand out of Harry’s reach. “Is that any way to greet your best friend, Harry?”

“Tom! We’ve got to go!” Harry cried. “We can talk later, when there isn’t a bloody basilisk on our heels!”

Tom smirked. “We’re going to talk now.” He told Harry all about how he easily charmed Ginny Weasley, the poor little girl with no friends. How she poured her soul to Tom, who listened patiently as he slowly possessed her. How she set the basilisk upon the school, utterly clueless of her actions. How incredibly long it took for the silly Weasley to stop trusting the diary.

“I can’t believe you, Tom—I _trusted_ you,” Harry shouted. “Was everything you told me a lie?” Those piercing green eyes stared at Tom, searching his soul.

Tom tilted his head in amusement. “You know how I am,” Tom said, twirling Harry’s wand. “I want my freedom.”

“You tried kill people!” Harry shouted.

“I wasn’t trying to _kill_ people Harry,” Tom said. “Haven’t you figured it out? I only wanted to find out more about you, to see you in person. Imagine how angry I was when Ginny stole the diary back.” Tom said, matter-of-factly, “She’s here now, though.”

Harry glared angrily, then sighed. “They’re going to close Hogwarts, Tom. Would you really send me back to the Dursleys?” Tom smiled inwardly; his Harry was trying to manipulate Lord Voldemort, the Heir of Slytherin.

Tom stepped closer, and tangled his hand with Harry’s hair. Tom’s other hand came up to stroke Harry on the cheek. “I’ll go with you. I’ll protect you.”

“Tom…” Harry sighed. Tom continued stroking Harry as Harry gathered his thoughts. Tom’s fingers brushed Harry’s black locks, trailing to Harry’s soft neck.

“Tom,” Harry said again. “I won’t—I can’t let you kill Ginny.”

“She’s nothing to you,” Tom bit out. “I’m your best friend!”

“Tom!” Harry shouted in frustration. “It’s not my place to decide who lives or dies! It’s not _your_ place to decide who lives and dies.” He grabbed Tom’s robes. “It’s _Ginny’s_ life, not yours. You,” said Harry, stabbing at Tom’s chest, “were never alive.”

Tom said, flatly, “So you want me to die.”

“That’s not it, Tom.”

Tom clenched Harry’s shoulders in frustration. “I’ll do anything, Harry.”

Harry pushed Tom’s hands off his body. He looked to the dark stone ground. “That’s the problem,” Harry said. “You’ll do anything, even kill someone.” Harry shook his head. “I’m sorry, Tom.” At Harry’s decision, a phoenix flashed into view, dropping the Sorting Hat on to Harry’s head.

Tom sneered at Dumbledore’s obvious move. “If that’s so,” Tom said, and pictured a mental snake. “ _Speak to me, Slytherin, greatest of the Hogwarts Four._ ” The ancient stones stirred as the basilisk awoke. Tom continued, “I will always remember you fondly, of course, even when my fellow self inhabits your body.”

Tom smiled at Harry, who was frozen in shock.

“ _Kill the other_ ,” Tom hissed. As the basilisk rose to strike, the phoenix appeared again. Its small body darted about battling the giant snake. Finally the blinded basilisk turned its attentions to Harry, now desperately gripping a gleaming sword. The basilisk lunged as Harry drove the sword into its mouth, killing it. Harry, covered in blood, was beautiful.

Tom walked towards Harry, who had collapsed in exhaustion. The phoenix was crying pitifully on Harry’s shoulder. Slowly, Tom lowered himself, setting one knee, then the other, on the stone floor. The cold seeped through his materializing robes. Tom knew that the basilisk’s poison was working irreversibly through Harry’s frail body. Tom took Harry in his arms, one last time. He swept strands of hair from Harry’s clammy forehead, out of Harry’s dulling eyes. At the edge of his sight, Tom saw Harry struggle to lift a frail arm on to Tom’s shoulders. It found an unstable perch on Tom’s arm, and reached up to trace Tom’s cheek.

Tom leaned down to kiss Harry. He widened his eyes in surprise as a blade ran through him. Tom’s lips touched Harry’s as he began to disappear. Faintly he heard a whispered, “We’re both fools, aren’t…”

Then he faded away forever.


End file.
